


Between naming and power (there is you)

by redsnake05



Category: Harry Potter - Rowling
Genre: Child Abuse, D/s Themes (Unsafe), Domestic Violence, Fantasised Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:16:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redsnake05/pseuds/redsnake05
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tom was made for greatness; he'd known this since he was a child. Working at Borgin and Burkes is a small beginning, filled with petty spites and unsettling visits to Hepzibah Smith. In Rosier, Tom finds something that he'd never considered.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Between naming and power (there is you)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [la_dissonance](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=la_dissonance).



> I invented Darach as a name for the first Rosier, the one who went to school with Tom Riddle. Many thanks to [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/tjwritter/profile)[**tjwritter**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/tjwritter/) for all her assistance and invaluable slapping down of my repeated words. Written for [](http://la-dissonance.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**la_dissonance**](http://la-dissonance.dreamwidth.org/) for [](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hp_yule_balls/profile)[**hp_yule_balls**](http://www.livejournal.com/users/hp_yule_balls/)

The security of routines had never left Tom Riddle, a habit he'd not shaken during any period of reinvention. After only three months in his job at Borgin and Burkes, his habits were well established, although they might not have been instantly obvious. Tom had his methods of getting what he wanted, how he wanted, even when one of his bosses called him into the poky, dirty back office and told him of another grieving relative he was to fleece, immediately. It would never do to run off, butchering the first meeting, even if the grieving relative did prove to be a blundering Mudblooded fool who deserved to be stripped of what their foul little fingers should never have touched. He had tact, after all.

It was on other days, when sudden visits to credulous family were thin on the ground, that Tom's rhythms were strongest. He planned his day carefully before ever leaving the house, arranging his visits to clients to coincide with his wishes and giving himself ample time in the back rooms of the shop where he could take the space for his own studies while obstensibly preparing various tawdry artefacts for sale. Neither Borgin nor Burke ever questioned his arrangements. He knew he'd been hired for his pretty face, charming manners and avaricious heart. It should be no surprise to either swindler that he could play them as well as he played his other dupes. He certainly didn't intend for them to find out, so the point was moot, he supposed.

Sipping his tea in the break room, Tom frowned as he pored over one of his notebooks. His routines were a comfort against many things, but Tom was conscious of a vague sense of disease. He went from home to work and back, his life bleak and sparsely populated. He was meant for greater things. The lines he had written in his book were cold comfort without adherents and admirers to hang on his words and agree with his vision of the future. He didn't want to think deeper into his unease, scheming only for the moment now. He could take the long view later. Right now, he wanted people around him, loud in their praise, even if boorish in their execution.

Draining his cup, he sent it to the sink to rinse and drain with a charm. His lip curled slightly as he remembered seeing Borgin swirling the water in by hand, rubbing dirty, ink-stained fingers up and down the inside and round the rim. Plebeian, both of them, lacking in flair and any motive greater than that of bare profit. They had no vision, and swindling a Muggle was the same to their profit margin as fleecing a Wizard. It meant a little more work at Gringotts and the handling of filthy Muggle notes, but Borgin and Burke left all that to Riddle. He stood and tucked away his notebook in a pocket of his robes, charmed not to show the bulge. It was the little things, he'd noticed, that set the Pureblood, refined and aristocratic, apart from the uncouth, even if they had been born wizard. Tom would not be surprised to learn that there was Muggle blood in both his employers, tainting their bloodstream in and out of generations.

He moved to the front of the shop to take his turn on the till, continuing to ponder how best to continue the enlargement of his horizons. At school, he had been popular and his views accorded respect. There had been Pureblood there, running true in some. He would be disappointed if any of his cronies from school ever fell from their shared ideals into this coralled existence that his masters had fallen for. Caring for money was all good and well, but he would hate to see them become in any way mundane. He resolved to contact a few in the evening, to remind them that there was much to gain in this world. Taking his place at the counter, he smiled and summoned his books. As was his habit, he intended to cover up his siphoning of profits from Muggle transactions with the most graceful of accounting. He had a meeting this afternoon with a client, Miss Hepzibah Smith, Burke had told him, handing over the accounts that showed her history with the firm. A rich woman with a taste for trinkets, it seemed. Tom was looking forward to it; she should be easy pickings.

 

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

She was both everything and nothing he'd been expecting. Unattractive and credulous certainly, he saw that at a glance as the House Elf showed him to an expensively uncomfortable seat opposite hers. Quick eyes raking over the costly wall hangings and furniture, Tom turned on his most charming smile as he settled and turned to Hepzibah, all attention and deference, even as his mind was calculating a rough estimate of the worth of the room's contents. He met a gaze as covetous as his own, though considerably less shrewd.

"How charming to meet you at last," she said. "Please forgive me not standing to receive you. I find the cold weather leaves me weak."

"I would not have you injure yourself," replied Tom. "Besides, we are destined to be friends, Miss Smith. Do not stand on ceremony with me." Here Tom took a risk. Burke had told him that she expected deference, but Tom was certain that the rules would be different for him. He had his reward when she smiled, even as there was something about it that made him uncomfortable. He shrugged off the feeling and concentrated on her words.

"I just knew that I would like you, as soon as Mr Borgin told me about you," she said. "It's so rare to find a young person with such regard for antiques, such appreciation." Tom smiled back at her.

"It's a pleasure to be in the company of a like-minded connoisseur," he said. "Mr Borgin, has, likewise, told me much about you and your discernment." She smiled even wider, and Tom had a chilling moment as he saw the ugly, predatory edge to her lips and teeth, the way her greed was wholly focused on _him_. He looked away, reaching into his bag to remove some sheaves of parchment he'd prepared. He hadn't intended to bring them out till later, after more small talk, but he needed an instant's respite from her regard. He straightened, relieved when he met her gaze and the look was gone. He'd been imagining it. Hepzibah was a simple old woman with expensive tastes, and it would be his pleasure no less than his duty to part her from her money.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Tom was perfectly on time to the small tavern, pushing open the heavy wooden door and entering on a flurry of winter-damp wind. Inside it was warm and about half full of people in small huddles and knots. Tom wrinkled his nose disdainfully for an instant. He hated the smell of malt, bringing back the memories of his childhood. He looked around to find Rosier already there, sitting in a booth towards the back. Riddle smiled. Rosier had remembered his tastes well. The booth commanded a view of the room without being easily overlooked itself. Brushing a few leaves from his sleeve, Tom walked over and slid in opposite Rosier.

"It's good to see you, Riddle," said Rosier. He pushed a glass towards him. "I ordered your favourite." Tom smiled. He'd been right to arrange this meeting; it would indeed be a shame if Rosier had been allowed to forget him.

"It's good to see you too," said Tom. He smiled at Rosier, taking pleasure in the way Rosier looked at him admiringly, the way he had bought Tom's favourite drink. Rosier had always been thoughtful. "It's been too long since I last saw you. We should stay in closer touch."

Rosier smiled back, something so different from the practiced smiles that Riddle was used to seeing and using that he was taken aback for a moment. Unguarded emotion was something he was unfamiliar with, but he liked seeing it on Rosier, knowing that he was unable, or unwilling, to conceal himself from Tom. Usually, he thought those incapable of dissembling to be fools, but Rosier's trust merely warmed him. Taking a sip of his drink, Riddle watched as Rosier looked away and back, a slight flush on his cheeks. It was hot in here.

"How are things going for you at Borgin and Burkes?" asked Rosier.

Repressing the urge to tell Rosier the full story of how stifled and lonely he felt, since he was hardly ready to admit it to himself, Riddle shrugged.

"Well enough," he said. "I see many small things, some mere trickery and trash, but others are well-made, truly full of magic."

"You would be good at it," said Rosier. "You always had an eye for what was worth the time and what was a lost cause." Tom was warmed by the praise and smiled back, one of his more intimate smiles, for when he actually felt comfortable. It didn't happen often. Next to him, Rosier maybe turned a little more red and sipped his drink again. "Do you work on the actual objects?" he asked.

"Yes," said Tom, and started to outline the idea that had come to him as he'd tinkered with a charmed chandelier. Rosier listened and nodded, asking questions. He signalled the waitress for more drinks, pressing Tom's into his hand with another of his broad smiles. Tom took it, looking up sharply when Rosier made a soft noise as their fingers touched on the wet glass. Rosier was still listening closely, and his smile lingered around his mouth. There was something different about it, something Riddle didn't quite recongise. It was something soft and full of a kind of care that didn't make sense. Tom had never seen one like it before, not directed at him. He look a long drink, still looking at Rosier. Their eyes met and Tom realised what the look meant. Shocked, he sat back in his seat. Rosier looked away, fumbling his drink back to the table with a clink.

Tom's first instinct was to push him away, shove at him hard with words and magic, to keep himself safe. He took a deep breath and let it out, mastering the urge. There was no edge of predation to Rosier's look, just admiration and care. That allowed Tom the space to breathe and consider. He had never thought of this, allowing someone this close to him, but Rosier was not wanting power over him. Tom managed a smile and raised his glass once more. He found his voice.

"And how is your apprenticeship?" he asked. His voice was even and calm and he saw the relief flood over Rosier as he turned back. There was a little bit of incredulous delight there, like he'd been expecting to be spurned, maybe shouted at and cursed. Tom wasn't sure why the sight of that was making him feel warmer, his stomach twisting a little in a feeling very like anticipation. He wasn't entirely sure that he liked it, but he let it go, listening instead to Rosier explaining something to do with heartwood oak and its properties. He would worry about this later.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Tom jerked upright in bed, breathing hard and damp with rapidly cooling sweat. He swallowed hard, twice, pushing down his nausea. Pulling himself out of bed, he stripped off the clinging cotton of his pyjamas; he threw them into the corner with shaking hands. He dragged on clean ones and belted his dressing gown tightly around him, leaving the rumpled bed behind him. It was unlikely that he'd sleep again tonight anyway.

He flicked on the lights in his tiny bathroom with a snap of his fingers and stood with his hands braced on the cold porcelain edge of the basin. He stared at himself in the mirror and tried to find the well of certainty he'd cultivated over the years since he'd escaped from the orphanage and a life bereft of magic. He knew he was made for greater things than this, the dingy confines of a bare apartment and a base job. He _knew_ it, had known it since he'd been old enough to dream of an escape from the barren cage of his tiny room, under the care of drunken Muggle fools. On nights like this, though, with the confused memory of hurt and loneliness fresh on his mind, it was hard to remember.

Pouring a glass of water, Tom swallowed it down and then breathed deeply against the wave of sickness that threatened him. He was in control of his life, had been ever since he'd first learned how to protect himself. He couldn't fail. He wouldn't fail, not now, not having come so far. He concentrated on the rise and fall of his chest, the deliberate drag of air into his lungs. He slowly mastered the ghosts of his mind, the foul memory of strange hands on his skin, crude whispers in his ears. They were gone and could never touch him again. He was outside their dominion now.

Moving into the kitchen, Tom sank down into his chair and sent cups and saucers flying, the hiss of steam from his kettle a comforting sound in the silence. The tray landed in front of him perfectly, the solid curves of fine china familiar and subtly reassuring as he watched the teapot hover and pour perfectly into a cup. He breathed in the scent, enjoying the way it was rich and full of flavour. It was the first luxury he'd ever learned to appreciate, after the industrial strength, bitter brew served at the orphanage, or the generic and bland tea at Hogwarts. One of the boys in his House had some from home and had shared it with the rest of them in a fit of rare generosity. Tom could still remember the surprise of the taste on his tongue, the way he'd felt warm and almost, almost, at ease in the Common Room and in his skin.

Rosier had been there, next to him on one of the Slytherin couches. He'd had macaroons, Tom remembered, and he'd handed Tom one with a smile. The biscuit had been like nothing Tom had ever tasted, Rosier's gesture like nothing he'd ever experienced. Tom shook his head at himself and took another sip. He was becoming maudlin, indulging in nostalgic fantasies brought on by the ghosts of an unpleasant past. There was no point dwelling on these things; studying the past was only instructive in learning how to revolutionise the future.

Still, as he slowly drank his tea and poured another cup, he thought of Rosier and his face, how he'd looked at Tom that evening in the pub. It wasn't that Tom didn't know he was attractive; his charm was part of his stock in trade, after all. He was used to enchanting people with his words and his looks, he was used to them falling for the smooth facade. Rosier was different.

Tom had seen other people fumble their way through attraction, lust, all the permutations of desire and appetite. Homosexual, heterosexual, the wizarding world embraced them all. Those who indulged lost parts of themselves, shaping to fit another person, worn down and eroded by the incessant pawing of other people. Tom had never liked being touched; there was too much power exchanged in the contact. There was part of him that was curious, though, about what it would be like to be touched by Rosier. He had strong hands, rough from his work with wood, but his fingers were delicate. Perhaps it would be possible to keep his own self safe, let Rosier have only what he allowed and no more. If he could, if it would work, then that would be a most potent way to bind Rosier to him. He needed to keep him close, keep all of them, really. He should have recognised this power earlier, but it was not too late to start.

Standing and stretching, Tom sent the dishes to rinse and drain. He tapped his wand against his jaw in thought for a moment before sending a charm to strip and remake his bed. He loved the crispness of new beginnings and unwritten pages. Unexplored terrain was best enjoyed in security.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

The overstuffed chair was slippery and treacherous under the fabric of his robes, but Tom balanced easily and smiled charmingly at Hepzibah. She was just as dumpy and gullible as he remembered, pressing tea and cake on him as she told stories of her recent holiday in Italy and the tremendous bargains she'd acquired. The house elf brought them in for his inspection and he pasted on his best expression of interest as she enumerated the many virtues of each one. The vase was obviously a fake, although a good one, and he doubted that the little bronze bust really was Alexandrian, at least, not of the era she'd been told. The books may have been authentic, but they failed to hold Tom's interest. The tiny cameo made his fingers tingle, however, but he betrayed no special interest in it. Instead, he lent his support and encouragement to her claims of having swindled the simple Italian traders finely.

"Which of these treasures would you judge my greatest triumph?" she asked. Tom considered them all. The locket was the only one that interested him; there was some deeper magic there.

"The vase," he said. It was well enough, the glaze the correct shade of eggshell green for the supposed era, but too thick and even to be authentic. If she needs must be unskilled and naive enough to buy fakes, however, at least she had the sense to buy good ones. "The pattern is unusual - I think I discern a faint Moorish influence here, in the borders - and it is very well-preserved." Hepzibah beamed at him, and he gave her the smile that best combined youthful deference and expert knowledge.

"I do so like to get value for my money," she said. The look she gave Tom slid a little from candid good humour into something closer to anticipation. Tom concentrated on the sheen on the bronze, pretending to examine its patina again. "One of the things I like best about Borgin and Burkes is the attentiveness that the firm put into their business. These house calls, our charming conversation, it's so thoughtful. So intimate a relationship."

Tom swallowed hard and forced himself to meet her gaze. The anticipation had dissolved into frank greed now, playing around the ugly set to her mouth and the avid gleam in her eye. Tom sat back a little further in his chair, keeping his smile light with an effort. He was glad he wasn't in reach, for he had no doubt that she would be poking and squeezing him, assessing the latest of the wares she was determined to acquire. She seemed the type to handle her potential possessions with a careless disregard for how their refinement exceeded hers. The familiar sizzle of his anger was just under his skin, just waiting to escape in curses that would leave her crying and hurt, not him. Ones that would turn her inside out and show her what her mauling felt like.

"Indeed," he said, trying hard to keep his voice even. Her smile turned indulgent now, like she thought Tom was nervous, or maybe coy.

"Now, dear," she said, "what do you have that is worthy of my interest today? Besides the pleasure of your company?"

Tom turned with relief to his bag, taking a moment to force away unpleasant memories. He presented the materials to her, holding himself together only with the control of long practice. On this inside, his heart was a shade faster than usual. He was sure that Hepzibah wasn't noticing, though. She was interested only in the surface of her potential acquisitions.

Escaping her house at last, a substantial order placed that would make Borgin and Burke, at least, not displeased with his work, Tom breathed deep for a second and Apparated almost without thought. The salty wind on his face when he popped into existence refreshed him after the close, clinging environment of Hepzibah's lounge. Looking out sightlessly over the sea for a moment, Tom gripped his control tightly and struggled with his impotent rage against the sea and the sky. He was not a child any longer, to be trapped and coralled by charity, to be manipulated by greed and the lecherous directions of those supposed to care for him. He had looked after himself as a child, weak and directionless as he had been. Now, he should be more able to contain this reaction, this fear.

Tom walked forward, looking down at the rocks below, remembering the dark cave that lay hidden from view. He remembered how his life had been then, a series of dark rooms and twisted corridors. His crying in the night had been shut off by fear, or the gross taste of soap on a rag shoved in his mouth. Now he was the one who controlled that darkness, who instilled that fear. He was no weakling, to be unmade by the covetous looks of an old woman, as foolish as she was wealthy.

The sea beat against the rocks, as implacable and turbulent as ever. The only constant here was change; even the cliffs would succumb eventually. Tom let the noise of the gulls and the surf wash through him and unlock the rage quietly, channeling it for later use, into the reserves he nurtured. He would learn to master even this, these terrifying desires of the body. He was in control.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Rosier was waiting for him again, face lighting up in a smile as Tom threaded through the crowd to the booth he'd claimed for them. The pub was busier, but Tom could ignore the rest of the people, concentrating on Rosier and not on the tight feeling in his chest. He'd never done this, gone out with the intention of inviting contact, but he was sure he could. His masks were firmly in place, and he had a lifetime of practice hiding his feelings.

Rosier pushed a drink towards him immediately and Tom smiled at him. He'd practiced this in the mirror, a warmer, more inviting version of the one he usually used on his acquaintances. It felt foreign on his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes in a way that was uncomfortable. But Rosier responded positively, a shred of tension leaving his shoulders. Tom felt better immediately, more in charge, as he watched the way Rosier responded to his cues.

"My apologies for being a little late," said Tom. "A small matter of a Muggle family being in possession of several charmed objects. It was necessary to act at once."

"Were they in danger?" asked Rosier. "Poor ignorant things."

"Nothing immediate," answered Tom. Rosier seemed disposed to listen, attentive as Tom described the grasping incomprehension of the parents, blind to everything but the cash he was willing to hand over. They had no idea of the power, the deep-inlaid magic that animated the objects he had bought from them. He felt none of the pity Rosier felt, more the disdain of someone who had narrowly escaped a similar life. He did not speak of that, but Rosier merely looked at him when he was done.

"It's hard for you, being round Muggles," he said. "I don't understand them," he continued, "but you do, and it makes you angry. I wish you didn't have to see them."

"They pollute this earth," replied Tom. He hadn't realised just how much Rosier saw, but, for once, the interest in his eyes didn't make Tom want to escape. He wanted to get closer, share more. He smiled again, instead, taking a long gulp of his drink. This time, the stretch didn't feel forced. He wanted Rosier to see the invitation to come closer.

"They do," agreed Rosier. "Let's talk more of it. I am hungry, and they make an excellent dinner here. Will you join me?" Riddle considered the man on the other side of the booth. Rosier had never put himself forward at school, and Tom looked at him now as if he'd never seen him before. He looked nervous, a little, around his mouth, and his hands were twisted together. He lifted his eyes, and Tom had never realised how blue they were before. Rosier would never be beautiful, he was a little on the short side and still gangly from adolescence. But his face was admiring and kind, and Tom found it strangely attractive.

"That would be good." Tom took a deep breath and steeled himself. One of his hands curled into a fist in his lap, out of sight. "What would you suggest, Darach?" It was the first time Tom had ever called him by his first name, and he nearly missed the look of delighted surprise that crossed the other man's face as he swallowed hard against his feeling of sickness.

"The steak and kidney pudding is very good," he replied. "Or they have some of your favourites from school. I can call for a menu, if you prefer, Tom."

Managing a smile as his nausea ebbed, Tom waved his hand graciously.

"You order for me," he replied. "You know the specialties here. You know what I like."

Darach's whole face lit up in obvious gratification. Tom concentrated on his breathing. This was not as bad as he had feared. He unclenched his hand under the table as he listened to Darach order the food. When he turned back to Tom, the smile felt almost natural on his face.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Tom waited this time, standing just in the shadow of the entrance to his building, waiting for Darach to come. His stomach was alight with the nervousness that followed him everywhere now, laying under his calm facade. Darach Apparated just down the street and Tom watched him approach. His hair was carefully combed back and his robes were new. Tom felt better as he took in the signs of his careful preparation. Darach was just as anxious as he was, and that was reassuring.

Stepping forward to meet him, Tom reached out without thinking. Darach's skin was warm and rough under his as their fingers curled together for a moment. The dry slide together ignited sparks up and down Tom's spine, making his breath catch. This might have been the first voluntary touch he'd had in years, and Tom was part terrified, part eager to hold on and discover more. Darach's thumb swept over the skin on the back of his hand, slow careful swipes that made Tom's skin flame underneath. Swallowing hard, Tom drew his hand back at last, hiding its shaking in the folds of his robe. Darach was standing close, too close, his proximity charged with possibilities that still made Tom have to push down nausea. He made no move to touch again, just looking at Tom and beaming like a fool. Darach was so open and easy to read, so obviously delighted in Tom. It should have made Tom itch to exploit him.

"Thanks for inviting me," said Darach. "I haven't been to the theatre in months. I hear that the attention they pay to the details in their Transfigurations is spectacular." His eyes were shining with something that skirted close to devotion. It should have made Tom uncomfortable, the sexual edge to it, but it didn't. He was used to having admiration and followers, and this was just a different kind of devotion. It would tie Darach so close to him that he would never be able to untangle himself. He'd be caught, linked to Tom's dreams and plans until Tom himself cut him free. Tom liked that.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Tom looked up from his book and his cup of tea when Borgin cleared his throat in front of him. Unhurriedly, Tom placed his bookmark in the page and closed the covers, laying his quill and parchment on top in a neat pile before clasping his hands and giving Borgin his undivided attention. He was looking after the shop, but saw no reason why his studies should be suspended simply because there may be _customers_.

"You're doing well, young Riddle," he started.

Tom inclined his head in acceptance of the compliment. He was doing very well, buying more, more cheaply, than either of his superiors had done for some time. Even with the amount he skimmed from Muggle transactions, he was still making the business more money than either of the principals were. He hid the complacent edge to his smile.

 

"Profits have been up since you started, and you have an excellent eye for a bargain."

 

"Thank you," replied Tom, when it was obvious that Borgin was waiting for a reply. The pompous benevolence of Borgin's smile made Tom grind his teeth. He knew his own worth; he knew that Borgin couldn't even begin to comprehend the edges of Tom's brilliance, the destiny he was making for himself.

"Several customers have asked for you specifically," he continued. He did not look thrilled by this, and Tom made sure his face didn't show his satisfaction over their preference. Of course they preferred him. He made them feel grateful to be swindled and hoodwinked. "Naturally, we're delighted that you are bringing us so much business since we took you on." Tom nodded. Naturally. Borgin did not look particularly gratified to be praising him. "Here are your assignments for this week."

"Thank you," said Tom again, letting nothing of his true opinion of Borgin and his grudging recognition show. He took the folder from Borgin and thought, with vindictive pleasure, of how he was going to use these men for his own ends. He was infinitely above them and they didn't even realise it. Borgin stood in front of him, a stain on the shoulder of his robes and no gloss to his shoes, and thought he was the one doing Tom a favour, in letting him work here.

"In particular," continued Borgin, "Miss Hepzibah Smith has requested you. As you are no doubt aware, she is a most lucrative client, of exquisite taste and delicate sensibilities." Tom looked at Borgin more closely, wondering if this was a warning or a congratulations. Hepzibah made his skin crawl with fear and loathing he'd tried hard to forget, just the thought of her and her greedy plumpness and covetous eyes. She wanted to own him and use him, but he wasn't a frightened boy to be exploited. It was unnecessary for Borgin to either caution or felicitate.

"I trust that I can meet Miss Smith's needs," replied Tom. He fully intended to meet her need to be decieved over trinkets of dubious age and quality. Her desire to possess _him_ was destined to be thwarted. Borgin nodded and retreated, leaving Tom alone with his folder, the limits of the work he could do here constrained in bare manilla. His lip curled for a second as he yearned for space and freedom. Tom did not open the folder. He knew what it would contain and had already decided how to manage his week.

Opening his book again, Tom sank back into his study. He wasn't thinking of Hepzibah and what she wanted of him, nor of all the times he hadn't been able to protect himself. The bell over the door chimed and Tom looked up again. Darach stood in the doorway, looking nervous but so eager, a faint shadow of sawdust on the hem of his robes, although his hands and face were scrubbed clean. He approached the counter, shy affection in each step he took.

"Tom, I just dropped in, hoping that you would be around," he said. Tom closed his book with a snap, raking his eyes over Darach again. He couldn't believe that Darach would come here, not like this. Standing, he made his way round the counter, taking a certain pleasure in the way Darach hesitated, the way his smile lost some of its gleam.

"We arranged for you to come to my flat tonight," he said.

"Yes, I know," said Darach. He raised his hand, reaching it out to Tom. Tom's fingers closed over Darach's cruelly tight, listening to his gasp of breath. The buzz from Darach's skin under his was different this time, less warm but more focused. Tom watched as Darach's tongue swiped over his lips in a nervous gesture, the abortive attempt to tug his hand from Tom's grasp.

"That doesn't explain what you're doing here," Tom said.

"I wanted to see you," said Darach.

"Checking up on me?" questioned Tom. He looked down at Darach's feet and roamed his eyes up over his body. "You're filthy," he said. His voice was low and venomous. Darach's fingers shook in his grasp. "Is this how you treat me?" he continued. "Coming to me dirty and dusty? You're lucky I waste my time on you, and this is how you repay me?"

"No," said Darach. His voice was trembling like his fingers. "Sorry, sorry. Tom, you're hurting me."

"You come to see me looking like dirt and expect me to welcome you?" asked Tom. "You don't deserve me, I don't know why I waste my time."

"Tom, no, I'm so sorry, I didn't think."

"You didn't think? Didn't think that I might have _standards_?"

"No, not that," said Darach. "I just wanted to see you, I'm sorry. I'll never, again... I'll be perfect for you." His breath was coming hard and fast now, his skin white around where Tom's fingers were digging in, implacably hard. His lip was red where he was biting it, and Tom wanted to bite it for him, to give him every bit of pain. He looked at Darach for a moment longer and his anger burned away as he looked at the averted line of his jaw, the vulnerable curve of his neck. He gentled his hold.

"I just want what's best for us," he whispered. "No one understands me like you do, Darach." He watched, the slow ebb of fury transforming into heat in his belly, as Darach took a deep breath and smiled up at him. "Come tonight," he said. "Be perfect for me."

"I will," said Darach. "Whatever you want, I can do it. I want to be worthy of you." Tom wanted to kiss him, something he'd never done before, wanted to taste the flawless submission of his mouth. But he couldn't, not here, so he took the pleasure of Darach's upturned face, his devotion and determination. Squeezing his hand again, lightly in a gesture of possession, Tom let Darach go and stepped back.

"Come tonight," he repeated. "Go now." Darach nodded and smiled and Tom watched him walk away, the straightness of his back and the lift of his chin. Darach was his, and the control was sweet and sure. He would make Darach worthy of him. Standing still in the dusty shop, more dangerous than any of the trinkets on the shelf could ever be, powerful beyond the imagining of plebeian minds like Borgin's, strong beyond the base rapacity of any Miss Smith, he let himself relive the moment of Darach's surrender, his acquiescence. The air around him felt charged with his purpose for a moment before he turned back behind the counter and opened his book again.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Darach looked impeccable when Tom opened the door. He was nervous, that much was obvious in the line of his shoulders, but he smiled bright and followed Tom into the lounge. He perched on the edge of the sofa, eyes darting all round the room. It was sparsely furnished, but what Tom did have was quality. He smiled as Darach slowly relaxed into the quiet elegance of his room. Tom didn't like to think of the hours he'd spent working on this room, stripping back the ugly, cheap walls, repairing the rickety furniture with layers of complex charms. He did like to reflect on the difference it had made, the way his surroundings were a backdrop for him. Solid, with not one line of patching visible. Every scar and ragged spot was hidden, leaving only the surface to be observed and admired. Darach admired, obviously.

Levitating in the tea tray, Tom smiled and sat next to Darach on the couch. He poured and handed over the cup, remembering how Darach liked his tea black, with a little lemon. He took the cup with a shy look and a word of thanks. Tom sipped at his own tea.

"How are your studies going?" Darach asked.

"Good," said Tom. He meant it too; he had found fascinating ideas and transfigurations in a book unearthed at the very back of the store room at work. They had needed translation and cross-checking, and had taken time and care to decipher. He liked this kind of work, seeing how information fitted into his visions and strategies. How it could be used and brought under his control. He told something of his efforts to Darach, watching the way he nodded and followed along, noting the questions he asked. He recognised Darach's willingness to please in the straight line of his back, the tension in the curve of his neck as he tilted his head. Tom put down his own cup.

His heart was pounding, his stomach a hot mix of anticipation and shoved down fear. Licking his lips, Tom watched Darach respond to the movent, the pink flicker of his tongue over his own mouth. There was yearning in Darach's look, like he wanted to touch but wasn't sure how. His fearful restraint excited Tom more than if he'd made an overt move. Putting his cup down, Darach turned to face Tom more squarely, one hand twisted in his robes like he was stopping himself from reaching out. When Tom leaned closer and placed his hand on top of them, his skin was still colder. Darach stilled under the touch, his breath coming more shallowly.

Tom ran his hand up from Darach's fingers, over the back of his hand and up under the edge of his robe to rest on bare skin. This was terrifying and intoxicating both, to touch with deliberation and forethought. Tom had never done this, not of his own volition. Edging closer, Tom brushed his lips over Darach's, feeling his stomach clench oddly as Darach gasped and his lips parted. Tom's tongue followed the plump line of Darach's lower lip. He pulled back just enough to see Darach's eyelids fluttering closed, mouth shiny and inviting in the candlelight. He brought his free hand up to cradle Darach's neck, thumb easing along his jaw. Sighing, Darach tilted his head and moved into Tom's next kiss.

Kissing had never been something that had attracted Tom. A tongue forced into his mouth, gross and violent, did not sound appealing to him. But the reality of kissing Darach was different than his foul memories or revolted imaginings. Darach's mouth was soft and inviting, tiny whimpers spilling from him. Tom copied what he'd seen others do, letting his own pleasure be the guide. Darach was sweetly responsive, hands opening and closing on his knees as he flickered his tongue shyly against Tom's. They kissed for long moments, soft and heated.

Tom was breathing harder when he pulled back this time, watching the rose flush over Darach's cheekbones. He was beautiful, waiting for Tom to make all the moves. Tom's grip tightened for an instant on Darach's neck, making him moan softly. Tom kissed him again, harder this time. He used his teeth in Darach's lower lip, tugging on it to urge him to open wider and let Tom in. This was heady, easy for Tom to lose himself in. Darach gasped and pressed closer, raising his free hand to tentatively rest on Tom's shoulder. Lifting his hand from Darach's arm, Tom let himself touch Darach as he wanted to.

The skin on Darach's neck was soft. Tom wanted to touch more, slipping the buttons on his robes free of their holes with slow fingers and a few fumbles. The heavy wool parted slowly and Tom pulled back from the kiss to look at the white jut of Darach's collarbones above his undershirt, the inviting curve where his neck met his shoulder. Tom's fingers skittered over the skin, making Darach moan quietly again. Tom met his gaze, looking at his swollen, red mouth and heavy-lidded eyes. This was better than Tom could ever have imagined. He wanted to push Darach back against the arm of the sofa and mouth over his perfect skin, discovering how he tasted. He wanted to strip him naked and see every inch of his body exposed to Tom's gaze, his to touch and mark. Bending his head he pressed a kiss to the hollow of Darach's throat.

Darach's fingers tightened slightly on Tom's shoulder and he pulled back again, ignoring the inarticulate sound Darach made. Tom had never felt lust like this before. His cock was hard under his robes, his arousal an insistent urge. He wanted to fuck Darach, something he'd never wanted to do before with anyone. He knew Darach would be beautiful under him. When Tom moved forward, Darach met him with more passion, this kiss deep and more passionate. Each noise Darach made into it wound Tom, made him want more, made him want to push Darach until he broke under his hands and mouth. He moved over Darach's jaw with kisses, pressing them down his neck.

"Can I touch you?" asked Darach. He sounded breathy, rough and needy. Tom froze, lifting his head to look at Darach. The look on his face was heated, full of a strange vulnerability. His fingers still rested on Tom's shoulders, twitching with the impatience to touch. Tom felt a sudden chill, just enough to take the urgency of the moment from him.

"We should stop," he said. Darach looked disappointed, licking over his lips as Tom's fingers worked over his buttons again, doing them up this time. Tom smoothed Darach back together, putting all the pieces back just how he wanted them. It felt almost more intimate than anything else they had done. Tom sat back on the sofa, watching as Darach straightened and slid into the role Tom assigned him. It left a smooth glow of satisfaction under his skin that nearly drowned the lust still singing in his veins.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Tom didn't wake up properly until he dropped off the bed and hit the floor with a thump, flailing desperately at his shroud of sheets and blankets to get free. He got one arm out, pressing his hand to his heaving chest and trying to breathe properly. They sounded more like sobs than anything else. The sheets clung to him wetly as he peeled them off, unable to stand their sucking pressure on his skin. The fugitive sensation of a heavy body on his back, tearing pain almost too big for his tiny body, lingered even after the sheets were a tangle on the floor and he was shivering in his pyjamas next to them. He rubbed at his wrists in a mindless gesture, reassuring himself that he could move.

The alternating waves of shame and fury choked him, clawing sickly at his stomach. He'd stopped the people from hurting him, eventually; he was strong enough to conquer them. He repeated the words like a mantra, not willing to let old fears destroy him. He could still remember, though, when he'd been too young for his magic to protect him, how he'd woken in the night to the shaking of his cot, the hot waft of whiskey-sodden breath over his skin. He'd cried, but no one had ever come to help him. The person charged with doing so was usually too busy tugging his pants off him, too busy hurting and abusing him.

Tom sobbed again, unable to hold them back tonight. His breath came in painful gasps as he was paralysed with fear and memory, just like he'd been paralysed then. His self-loathing was a distant clamour under the immediacy of the pain, the shame and outrage. He wasn't sure how long he huddled there on the floor, chilled inside and out except for the hot tear-tracks down his face. Dawn was sullenly streaking the sky when he finally dragged himself into the bathroom, setting the shower going with a wave of his wand. Before the steam obscured the mirror, he looked at himself, seeing the grey pallor to his skin, the redness of his nose and eyes. Closing his eyes against the image, Tom forced himself to breathe deeply.

Each time, these dreams and memories got worse. He was drowning in small sections, and that angered and terrified him in turns. He had so much to accomplish, he couldn't be held back by this. It was the past, it was done with, and he was stronger, smarter, more capable than anything they could have dreamed of.

An image of Darach fought its way through his jostling thoughts and Tom felt himself calm a little more. Last night had been revelatory. Darach was sweetly pliant under Tom's hands and mouth and his little moans and whimpers tasted sweet, unforced. Tom wanted more of them, wanted to hear and feel and taste everything that Darach had to give. For the first time, he wanted to do _that_ with someone, fuck them and come with them.

All his experience of sex was weighted with shame and the bone-deep memory of hurt and hatred. What he'd seen in other people was foolishness and lewd display. A part of him wanted to make new memories with Darach, make a world out of their bodies. It wasn't even about power and control now, not entirely, and Tom ignored the swift stab of fear that that thought produced. He took another deep breath and straightened, opening his eyes. The mirror was fogged, but he knew what would stare back at him from the glass.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

Tom was getting used to the slick feel of the upholstery in Hepzibah's cramped and pretentious little parlour. A month of visits, of her mercenary gaze and gluttonous fat fingers. Tom despised her. Each tasteless trinket he sold her was not punishment enough for how she looked at him, how she dared to want him, no matter how he inflated the price. His own fingers itched for his wand, to teach her that he was not hers to order as she might order a fraudulent statuette from the shop.

Hepzibah was sitting up on her chaise today, her rings flashing in the sunlight and bracelets jangling as she gestured with even more animation than usual. Tom's chair had been moved even closer to her, nearly within reach. He left his case by his feet and sat straight, betraying none of the nausea swirling in his gut. Sipping at his tea, an inferior blend, he listened with every appearance of interest.

"Mind, Tom, dear, I don't keep my finest wares on display in here, where any visitor may see them," she said. "There is something so distasteful about knowing that the viewer has not the soul to appreciate the niceties of life. So common, so depressing to watch. There is blank incomprehension in some people, and it hurts the hearts of those, such as ourselves, who are appreciative of the finer things."

Tom nodded sagely. He could agree with much of that, bar her inclusion of herself in the ranks of the fortunately artistic and properly appreciative. "Indeed," he agreed. "They waste their time on mundanities and commonplaces."

"Quite right," concurred Hepzibah. "But I can tell that you have the soul of an artist." She leaned forward and, for a heart-stopping moment, Tom was sure she was going to touch him. His skin crawled in anticipation of the loathesome touch, maybe a shadow of memory clinging foul to his skin. "I wish to show you one of the chief treasures of my collection," she continued. Smiling politely, Tom braced himself inwardly for yet another worthless monument to her susceptible nature. What the House Elf bore in, however, took his breath away in a momentary gasp. He covered hastily, gazing at the shining cup with mere courtesy.

He knew what it was at once. The curve of the handles and the swell of the belly were unmistakable from descriptions, even without the carving on the front. For an instant, he thought it was merely a reproduction, but as the House Elf approached the ancient magic bled off it in waves, raising the hairs on the back of his neck and making his mouth dry with lust. It was real, he could feel it through his skin. The will of the maker permeated it, strong and living for those with the blood and wit to feel it. Licking over his dry lips, Tom tore his gaze away. It would not do to show his want so plainly. The look on Hepzibah's face was half triumphant, half terrified. She signaled for the House Elf to leave, but Tom barely noticed. Whatever she had seen in his face, she was forgetting already. The triumphant look was bordering on smug, the terror fading. She thought she had been mistaken in the look and Tom slowly relaxed into his seat.

"A beautiful work," he said, infusing his voice with every ounce of assumed sweetness and docile deference he could command. "A family heirloom, perhaps?"

"Not in the direct line," she said, regretfully, "but we do claim descent from Hufflepuff. A slightly convoluted family lineage, but one that holds true, nonetheless."

He looked at her; she was so sure of his captivation and acquiescence, and thought of the filth she doubtlessly harboured in her veins. What he'd felt, just from the proximity of the cup, was strong and proud, pure blood at its best and finest. You had to fall a long way, drag your name and your honour through the mud, before it boiled down to the petty corruption of the likes of Hepzibah Smith. She didn't deserve the cup, not even the sight of it in her base and pedestrian eyes.

"It is impressive, that it has remained for so long in the family," he said, watching as her eyes dropped momentarily. He was right, then, there had been money involved in removing the cup from the most direct line.

"Thank you," she replied. Her chin lifted again and there was a shade of calculation to her gaze. "I was wondering, since you are interested in history, and such a scholar, if you would care to return this evening to discuss more."

Tom barely kept his teeth from showing. There was no terror or shame in his reaction now, nothing of the frightened boy or helpless chattel. He was not to be bought, not by the likes of her, nor by anyone. His mind provided him with images of her face as she cowered and pleaded, how she would barter her one treasure for her skin, how he would take both treasure and the recompense of her blood spilling. He was strong beyond her imaginings, and he would take the cup from her. It would be the perfect vessel for his plans.

"I'm afraid I am already engaged this evening," he said. His voice was smooth and poignant with assumed regret. "I imagine I could learn much from you. Perhaps, if it is not an imposition, another night?" He made sure to plaster his most charming, almost winsome, smile to his lips. It didn't reach his eyes, but her gaze lingered only on his mouth; there was no danger.

"Yes, indeed," she said. "I should be honoured to teach and tell you anything that will help with your scholarship." She smiled, full of self-satisfaction and anticipation. Tom hid his in his breast, burning white hot and angry. She would be spoiled and broken, cast aside as worthless straw in the semblance of a witch of blood. The honour would be his, for she had only the dregs of what might once have been pride.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

This time, Tom was expecting Darach. The shop was closing for the day, and Burke was a lurking shadow in the corner as Tom unhurriedly tidied his books and prepared to leave. When the bell to the door jangled and Darach stepped inside, Tom moved forward to greet him, taking in the perfect elegance of his appearance with satisfaction. A tiny jolt of lust sizzled through him as his mind supplied, unbidden, the image of Darach spread out, rumpled and undone, pinned underneath Tom's body. The shy curve to Darach's lips said he felt it too. Tom reached out and cupped Darach's elbow in his hand, leading him back out the door. Burke's eyes were heavy on the back of Tom's neck, but he ignored that. He was above the criticism of that commoner. If all went to plan, he would soon be free of his judging stares.

Tom dropped his hand from Darach's elbow when they were outside, but they still walked close enough for their shoulders to brush. It was cold outside, dirty grey snow standing in piles waiting to be banished, and the cobblestones were slippery underfoot. Few people were out this late; it was surprising how many furtive customers liked to purchase their trinkets after normal business hours, so the shop stayed open to cater to them. Tom was used to leaving in the darkness.

The pub was bright and well-lit, warm after the grey chill outside. Tom led the way to their usual table and the waitress came over with a glass for each of them without needing to ask. Tom looked at his in a little surprise. He'd acquired another routine without even noticing. Catching Darach's hand, he tugged him into the booth after him, instead of letting him sit on the other side. Darach looked a little surprised, but he followed readily, settling close to Tom on the padded seat.

The bright flare of anticipation burned low and steady in Tom's belly. He still felt restless and irritable from the afternoon, full of hateful bitterness and righteous greed. His fingers itched to touch the cup, to hold it and own it, but Darach's skin was a worthy substitute. It felt good, to rub his thumb over the back of Darach's hand and watch him bite his lip and flush slightly. Tom drank with his other hand, watching Darach look down at their joined hands and then away.

"Don't you like me holding your hand?" asked Tom. Darach's breath caught on a gasp and he met Tom's gaze for an instant before letting his gaze drop again. "Anyone would think you were ashamed of me," Tom continued. The prickling itch under his skin was stronger. He wanted to push Darach, to see how he would respond.

"No," said Darach, "not ashamed."

"What is it then? You won't even look at me."

"Nothing," said Darach. "I'm here, I want to be here." Tom tightened his fingers, biting into Darach's skin. Teeth set in his lip again, Tom was sure that Darach was this time biting back a noise of pain. He wished he could hear it; he was sure it would taste sweet in his mouth or on his skin.

"Are you sure?" asked Tom. He could hear Darach's breath coming a shade faster.

"I am," said Darach. "You're the only man here worth looking at. You shine the others down." He met Tom's eyes again, something pleading in them. There was devotion, of course, and the most delectable hints of submission. Darach would take anything, take it and _love_ it, _beg_ for it. Tom felt flushed with just the prospect of taking that, having that for _himself_.

"Do I?" he asked. He gentled his fingers on Darach's hand, drinking in the relieved, grateful noise that Darach made with a greedy impatience. He couldn't do anything about his other concerns, not tonight, but he could have this. "Order for me, my love."

Darach raised his eyes again. They shone with happiness and devotion this time, his lips curved into a trembling smile. Tom smiled back.

&gt;&gt;&gt;&gt;

The lights were out in the stairwell of his apartment building again. Tom climbed the stairs, muttering a charm to light the lamps, ignoring how the dim light highlighted the chipping paint and uneven waterstains. He knew his haven was perfect. Darach waited while he let down his wards, eyes fixed on Tom, not his surroundings. When Tom invited him in, Darach stepped over the threshold and stood there, perfectly still and waiting. Tom shut the door and raised the wards again before he stepped up behind Darach, pressing against his back and running his hands down his arms to grip his wrists, just under the sleeve of his robes.

"I don't think we need to bother with tea," said Tom.

"No," said Darach. Tom kissed his neck, just under his ear, smiling against the soft skin. Dragging his fingers up the inside of Darach's arms, Tom considered his next moves. He knew what he was doing, the very instructive book on the mechanics of consenting sex safely hidden, but the information filed neatly in his brain. He knew what he could do to make Darach moan and tremble, to claim him as his own. Darach would give himself freely, and the thought of that surrender made Tom's heart beat faster. Tom kissed Darach's neck again and again, soft presses and little nibbles, letting go of one wrist to brush his hair aside before curling his hand loosely around Darach's throat. He bit harder when Darach's breath caught.

Releasing Darach's other wrist, Tom flicked open the clasp on Darach's cloak, sending it to hang in the closet with a murmured charm. His own followed with a quiet rustle. Darach's shoulders were tense under his robes and Tom admired the tight line for a second before he let go of him completely and stepped round him, taking his hand to lead him through the tiny apartment to the bedroom. The lights flared as they walked through, sending soft yellow into all the corners. Tom watched Darach's gaze dart all round his room before landing on the bed.

Tom took his shoes off and placed them neatly by his wardrobe, watching in appreciation as Darach did the same. He stepped forward and into Darach's space as he straightened, settling his hands on Darach's shoulders and licking into his mouth softly, but with intent. This kiss was intimate, more gentle than Tom had ever imagined kissing could be. He broke the kiss as he slowly slipped the buttons of Darach's robes open, trailing his fingers over the bare skin of his throat and collarbones, across the top of his chest, as it was revealed. Moaning, Darach's hands fisted in Tom's robes as his head tipped back. Tom stepped away, ignoring Darach's noise of protest.

"You don't touch without my permission," he hissed, unsettled by the sudden fear that had stabbed through him at the clutch of Darach's fingers. Opening his eyes slowly, revealing eyes blown dark, Darach gazed back at him and nodded.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I'll remember." Tom felt the fear fade under renewed lust. He wanted to hear more of Darach's voice, rough and low with desire.

"Good," he said. "Take off your robes."

 

Darach flushed red, fingers lifting to his buttons. He opened them slowly, letting the material part before shrugging them off and holding them in one hand. Tom took them and sent them to hang with another murmured charm. Darach looked like he didn't know what to do with his hands, fidgeting restlessly as Tom looked at him. Without his robes, clad in dark trousers and a thin undershirt, he was even more beautiful.

"Come here," Tom ordered. Darach obeyed, stopping just in front of him. Tom dragged his fingers up Darach's forearms to grip just below his elbows. The skin under his hands was delicate, thin in the crook of his elbow. Tom wanted to mark him, somehow imprint himself permanently in Darach's skin, in his life. Tom dropped his head to kiss along the vulnerable curve of Darach's neck, listening to the unsteady drag of his breath. Shifting closer, Tom pressed their bodies together. Darach's erection was obvious against Tom's thigh, but the half-expected moment of panic never came. Tom just shifted so that his own cock rubbed into Darach's hip. He moaned softly into the skin under Darach's jaw, lust shooting through him.

This felt nothing like Tom had anticipated. It was bigger and more terrifying, but he _wanted_. Darach was tense against him, nearly shaking, and Tom felt an unexpected tenderness towards him. He wanted to watch Darach fall apart and then be the one to put him back together. He wanted to trust him, and Tom had never felt an urge like that. When Tom's finger's touched Darach's jaw, tilting his head for a kiss that was burning with everything he couldn't say, they were trembling.

"I've never done this before," Tom said. He hadn't meant to blurt that out and he tightened his hold on Darach's jaw in trepidation of his response, or perhaps warning.

"Me neither," said Darach. "I'm glad it's you." He swallowed hard. "I've been in love with you for a long time." His voice cracked on the confession. "I want to belong to you," he whispered.

Tom turned his face into the curve of Darach's throat. "You're mine," he said. "Take my robes off."

Darach's fingers fumbled over the buttons, but he got them open and Tom stepped back to slide them off and send them to the closet. Darach was watching him with reverent eyes. Tom licked his lips as he reached out and anchored his hands on Darach's hips, walking them backwards to the bed. He spread Darach out over the covers and knelt over him, grateful that his heating charm was warming the room enough that they didn't have to get under the blankets. Splaying his hand out over the sliver of skin showing where Darach's undershirt had come untucked, Tom eased the thin cotton up slowly, feeling Darach's belly rise and fall sharply with each breath. He dropped his hand to the fastening of Darach's trousers, unbuttoning the fly and pushing back the material. His mouth was dry with anticipation, and the little noise Darach made when Tom's knuckles brushed over his cock was intoxicating. Sitting back on his heels, Tom surveyed Darach, from his tousled hair and dark, glazed eyes to the peak of his nipples through his shirt, over his belly and the cut of his hipbones exposed by the parted material of his trousers.

"You're so beautiful," breathed Tom. He moved his hand to sit just above the hard line of Darach's cock, still confined under his underpants. The possession of the gesture pleased him. "You belong to me. You're _mine_ and I will never let you go."

"That's all I want," replied Darach. "Please." He arched his body a little, into Tom's touch. "I want you." When Tom let his next breath out, it was shaky and uneven. He bent and kissed the tender skin between his hand and the waistband of Darach's underwear. Darach's little moan sounded sweet. He eased the last layer of fabric down, mouthing the skin from one sharp hipbone down to the crease between thigh and groin. Darach smelled good, like wood and clean soap, and being in control of this act made Tom feel like he was going to explode out of his skin. When he opened his mouth over Darach's cock, tongue circling just the head then sucking once, twice before pulling back, he was surprised at the raw sizzle of lust over his nerves. He hadn't expected to find this hot, but he did. He sucked again, going deeper, his other hand coming up to anchor Darach's hips, Tom's fingers curled around the sharp bone. Darach tasted salty on his tongue.

"Take your shirt off," said Tom, pulling back. He watched as Darach squirmed on the cover, pale against the dark green material, getting the cotton off and over his head. Tom pulled at his waistband, tugging off his trousers and underwear. Darach arched up, lifting his hips. He was exposed to Tom finally, curling his toes into the covers too when Tom dragged his socks off and dropped them onto the floor on top of his other clothes. Tom wanted to touch everywhere, to blanket him with his body. He summoned the small jar of oil instead, contenting himself with looking at Darach as he twisted off the lid. When his slick fingers touched Darach's entrance, blindly seeking, Darach gasped and clutched the cover underneath him. He opened for Tom willingly, hot and tight around the intrusion. Biting his lip, Tom ignored the way his cock jerked against the confines of his clothes when he thought of being in there.

He wriggled and twisted his finger, pulling out to get more oil and come back with two. Darach was flushed bright, so alive that it made Tom's breath catch. When he pulled his fingers apart, deliberately stretching Darach's hole, Darach moaned. Tom wanted to fuck him now, just shove inside his willing body and listen to that moan tip over the edge from pleasure to pain. He would one day, he knew, and he knew Darach would let him. Darach would take it from him, whatever he gave. But this time, he wanted Darach mindless with bliss. Fingers loaded with even more oil, Tom slowly eased three into Darach's body. He was glad he'd brewed the oil with the pleasure enhancement; watching Darach toss his head on the pillow and rock up into the stretching intrusion was heavenly. Every line of his body was an invitation, silently begging for more of Tom's touch. He wasn't quiet either, Tom's name spilling from his lips along with half-broken moans and pleas.

Finally, Tom pulled back and knelt between Darach's thighs. Darach's chest was heaving and his cock lay heavy on his belly. His legs were bent and spread wide, laying him out to Tom's gaze. He tugged off his undershirt impatiently and dropped it next to them on the bed. Fingers still slick, Tom fumbled with the buttons on his trousers, finally getting them open and shoving them down. Holding his breath, Tom shuffled forward and lifted Darach's legs up, bending him almost in half with his legs over Tom's shoulders. Darach's eyes fluttered open as Tom eased the head of his cock inside. He slid foward slowly, revelling in the sensations as he was enclosed in slick heat.

Easing himself down further, Tom rested his forehead on Darach's breastbone as he made his first thrust. He could feel Darach's groan of pleasure rumbling in his chest before it tore from his mouth. Angling his head, Tom watched Darach's lips twist and part on lewd, abandoned noises, his eyes squeezed shut and sweat beading at his temples. Tom was nearly lost too, thrusting long and slow as he watched each flicker of pleasure chase its way over Darach's face. He'd never imagined that sex would feel like this, that he'd feel so vulnerable and so powerful at once. He'd never dreamed that he'd want to make it good for someone else, that he _could_ make it good for someone.

"You can touch me," he said, snapping his hips faster. He wasn't going to last, and he didn't think Darach was either. Darach sobbed as his hands curled over Tom's shoulders and tried to drag him even closer. The touch on his shoulders, rasp of sweaty palms over his skin, felt better than he could have dreamed. He kissed Darach's chest, the steep jut of his collarbones, sucking hard on the delicate skin. Darach gasped Tom's name, grip slipping restlessly on his skin, arching up into each thrust.

Tom hadn't thought it could get better, but when Darach groaned, even louder than before, twisting up with his eyes squeezed shut and his body clenching hard, Tom felt the sensations ripping through him. He jerked roughly into the tightness of Darach's body, feeling like he was going to explode out of his skin and disappear as he came. Darach's touch on his arms, the reassuring warmth of his panting breaths over Tom's head, held him together as he moaned and poured himself into Darach's body.

He wasn't sure how long it took before he came back enough to ease Darach's legs down, pulling from his body with a regretful shiver. Darach's hands slid bonelessly from his shoulders as he lay, languid and ruined, against the rumpled covers. Tom snapped his fingers and murmured a charm, cleaning the bed and their sticky skin. He itched to touch Darach more, explore more thoroughly the skin that belonged to him.

"Kiss me," begged Darach. He held his arms out in mute invitation, smiling blissfully as Tom settled back against him and let him loop his arms around his neck. Tom's own hand roamed up and down Darach's side, propped up on his other elbow. This kiss was reassurance and warmth and Tom melted into it. He needed the moment to compose them both, reconcile himself to what had just happened.

"Bed," said Tom, looking down into Darach's sleepy face.

"Yes," said Darach. He levered himself off the bed as Tom stood and summoned two pairs of pyjamas. They shuffled round each other, sharing the space as they went through the rituals of bed. Tom brushed his hand over the back of Darach's neck, smoothed the hair back from his face, fiddled with the buttons on his pyjama shirt, each touch earning him a shy, beaming smile. They settled into bed, Tom pulling Darach close to curl into his side. He lay on his back and stared up at the canopy over his bed long after Darach's breathing had evened out.

Tomorrow would be a busy day. He had much to take care of. It had been a long time since he'd bothered to find anyone from his old life, the one where he'd been afraid and powerless, but he knew the time was right. The cup would be the receptacle for another part of Tom's walk towards immortality, and the death of Hepzibah, his would-be abuser, would, along with the death of his actual abuser, be a fitting sacrifice.

Tom knew great things lay in front of him. He'd known it since he had been eight years old and the heavy weight of the foul man on his back had lifted, crashing him into the wall with a sickening thud. Tom had been sobbing hard, bruised and bleeding, shaken, but he'd known, somewhere deep inside, that he'd done that. That he'd gotten rid of the monster who hurt him. Tonight he'd proved that the last strings of fear were gone, and tomorrow he'd bury the ghost.


End file.
